


The Hero

by sophisticus



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-13
Updated: 2017-02-14
Packaged: 2018-09-24 04:09:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9700118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sophisticus/pseuds/sophisticus
Summary: Castielle isn't going to let something as little as the Blight get in the way of getting vengeance for her family; saving the world on a cross country road-trip with a group of well meaning misfits is just a side benefit.





	1. Prologue pt 1: Calm Before a Storm

**Author's Note:**

> I had posted this previously but have since noticed a ton of mistakes and have slightly changed my characterization of my warden, so I'm reposting the new and improved version here.

_For generations, my family, the Couslands, has stewarded the lands of Highever, earning the loyalty of my people with justice and temperance. When my country was occupied by the Orlesian Empire, my father and grandfather served the embattled kings of my land. Today, my elder brother takes up House Cousland’s banner in service to the Crown - not against the men of Orlais, but against the bestial darkspawn rising in the south._

* * *

 

“I trust then that your troops will be here shortly?” The man speaking stood facing the fireplace in the giant hall, hands behind his back.

“I expect they will start arriving tonight, and we can march tomorrow,” the other man replied smoothly. “I apologize for the delay, my lord. This is entirely my fault.”

“No, no,” the first man, Teryn Bryce Cousland, reassured him, turning to face the man. “The appearance of the darkspawn in the south has us all scrambling, doesn’t it? I only received the call from the king a few days ago, myself. I’ll send my eldest off with my men. You and I will ride tomorrow, just like the old days.”

“True,” Arl Rendon Howe said dryly, “though we both had less gray in our hair then. And we fought Orlesians, not…monsters.”

The teryn laughed lightly. “At least the smell will be the same.”

A door on the far end of the hall opened and in walked Castielle Cousland, her long silver-blonde hair pulled back in a complicated braid. She walked up to the two men, nodding her hellos.

“I’m sorry pup, I didn’t see you there,” Bryce said to her. “Howe, you remember my daughter?”

“I see you’ve become a lovely young woman,” Howe said pleasantly. “Pleased to see you again, my dear.”

“And you, Arl Howe,” Castielle replied politely. “Was I brought here for a reason, father?”

“Yes, actually. Since your brother is leading our forces south and I’m going with the arl, I’m leaving you in charge of the castle,” Bryce explained.

Castielle felt her jaw drop. “What?” she exclaimed. “Why can’t I go into battle with you and Fergus?”

“I’m certain you’d more than prove yourself, but I am not willing to deal with your mother if you join the war. She’d kill me if I let you go. She’s already twisted into knots about Fergus and me going.”

“Let me talk to her,” Castielle tried to bargain. “I’ll convince her.” It was a long shot, knowing her mother, but she had to try.

The teyrn seemed to share her thoughts. “I doubt that,” he sighed. “You know your mother, and she made it clear here is no debate. This is no needless task. I ask you to take a great responsibility. Only a token force is remaining here, and you must keep peace in the region. You know what they say about mice when the cat is away, yes? There’s also someone you must meet,” he added, ignoring Castielle’s sour look and turning to look back at a guard standing behind him. “Please, show Duncan in.” The guard saluted and walked off.

A minute or two later, the guard reappeared, with a rather intimidating man at his side. He wore plain armor, had his hair pulled back in a ponytail, had a short beard and a single gold earring in one ear. His brown face was lined with age and he had an air of world-weariness and solemnity that belied the laugh-lines around his eyes. As he approached, Castielle couldn’t help but distantly think that he looked like a figure she’d once seen in a chantry painting.

“It is an honor to be a guest within your hall, Teyrn Cousland,” the man said in a soft, reassuring voice.

“Your Lordship, you didn’t mention that a Gray Warden would be present,” Howe interjected. A Gray Warden? Castielle looked at the man more closely; no wonder he seemed so serious.

“Duncan arrived just recently, unannounced. Is there a problem?” Bryce asked cautiously.

“Of course not,” the arl said, chuckling lightly, “but a guest of this stature demands certain protocol. I am at a disadvantage.” Despite his smooth words, Castielle couldn’t help but notice that Howe seemed nervous.

“We rarely have the pleasure of seeing one in person, that’s true,” the teyrn acknowledged. “Pup, Brother Aldous taught you who the Gray Wardens are, I hope?”

Castielle turned to face her father. “He said they were a small order, and are no longer important,” she replied. “Of course, with the return of darkspawn, their importance is no longer a question.”

Bryce looked shocked. “I apologize, Duncan,” he stammered. “That Aldous has some nerve, teaching my children such slanderous nonsense.”

“I take no offense. The Gray Wardens are not what we once were,” Duncan said good-naturedly.

“I’ll not have the Wardens spoken ill of in my household,” the teyrn said forcefully. “Without them, the darkspawn would have killed us all in the first Blight. You are the only reason men still live in Thedas.”

Bryce stopped, taking in a steadying breath. Once he had calmed somewhat, he continued. “Duncan is looking for recruits before joining us and his fellow Wardens in the south. I believe he’s got his eye on Ser Gilmore,” he explained.

“If I might be so bold, I would suggest that your daughter is also an excellent candidate,” Duncan interjected.

“Honor though that might be, this _is_ my daughter we’re talking about,” Bryce chuckled.

“Perhaps _that_ would get me into battle,” Castielle said dryly. To be honest, the idea of becoming a Gray Warden was less than enthusing, but if it put her in a position where she could do more than babysit the teyrnir, then she was willing to give it a shot.

“That discussion is closed,” the teyrn said shortly.

“You did just finish saying that the Gray Wardens are heroes, old friend,” Howe pointed out.

“I’ve not so many children that I’ll gladly see them all off to battle. Unless you intend to invoke the Right of Conscription?” he said pointedly to Duncan. Castielle could tell he was trying to not make the words sound like a challenge, but he was failing.

Duncan shook his head. “Have no fear,” he reassured him. “While we need as many good recruits as we can find, I’ve no intention of forcing the issue.”

The teyrn’s shoulders sagged with relief. He turned to face Castielle again. “Pup, can you insure that Duncan’s requests are seen to while I’m gone?” he asked.

“Don’t strain my abilities or anything,” she grumbled halfheartedly.

“And don’t strain my patience,” he scolded. “In the meantime, find Fergus and tell him to lead the troops to Ostagar ahead of me.”

“You’re not trying to be rid of me, are you, father?”

“We need to discuss the battle plans in the south. Be a good lass and do as I’ve asked. We’ll talk soon.”

Castielle had the self-restraint to hold off on grumbling under her breath until she was at least outside the main hall. She’d barely taken three steps in the general direction of her brother’s rooms before a voice interrupted her thoughts.

“There you are!” The ginger man stepped close to her from where he’d waited next to the doorway. “Your mother told me the teyrn had summoned you, so I didn’t want to interrupt,” he said apologetically. His armor jangled as he reached up to scratch the back of his head.

“Good thing, too, considering father’s company,” Castielle replied.

“Yes, I saw the arl and the Gray Warden arrive,” he said. “I fear your hound has the kitchens in an uproar once again. Nan is threatening to leave.”

Castielle waved her hand dismissively. “Nan is just blowing off steam. She’s always been like that.”

Gilmore shrugged. “Your mother disagrees. She insists you collect the dog, and quickly. You know these mabari hounds. She’ll listen to her mistress, but anyone else risks having an arm bitten off.”

“She knows better than to hurt anyone,” Castielle argued.

“I’m not willing to test that,” the knight sighed. “You’re quite lucky to have your own mabari war hound, you know. Smart enough not to talk, my father used to say. Of course, that means she’s easily bored. Nan swears she confounds her just to amuse herself.” Castielle couldn’t help but chuckle at the idea. “At any rate, your mother would have me accompany you until the matter is settled. Shall we?”

“To the kitchen, then.”

“Just follow the yelling. When Nan’s unhappy, she makes sure everyone knows it,” Gilmore said dryly.

The two made their way to the kitchen, where they found the old woman ranting loudly.

“Get that bloody mutt out of the larder!” Nan snapped at the two terrified servants.

“But mistress, it won’t let us near,” one of them, an elven woman, protested.

“If I can’t get into that larder, I’ll skin both of you useless elves, I swear it!” Nan screeched.

“Uh, calm down, good woman. We’ve come to help,” Gilmore interrupted, using as soothing a voice as he was capable.

The woman turned, her bloodshot eyes falling upon the two of them. “You! And _you_! Your bloody mongrel keeps getting into my larder! That beast should be put down!”

Castielle refrained from rolling her eyes; this whole day was giving her a headache. “Maybe _you_ should be put down” she said tersely.

Nan practically swelled with rage. “What?” she demanded. “That monster is in _my_ larder, slobbering all over the bacon, and _you’re_ insulting _me!_?”

“Oh dear,” one of the servants fussed. “Mistress, calm down, please-”

“That’s it! I’ll quit!” Nan shouted. “Inform the teyrna, I’ll go cook at some nice estate in the Bannorn.”

“Nan please!” Gilmore entreated. “We’ll get the dog, calm down.”

“Just get her gone,” the old woman snapped. “I’ve enough to worry about with a castle full of hungry soldiers!”

Castielle brushed past her impatiently and pushed the larder door open. She was greeted by the sight of her massive mabari nosing through some sacks and sniffing loudly. The dog pulled back and barked at the pile.

Gilmore sighed heavy. “Look at that mess. How did she even get in here?”

The mabari’s tongue lolled out in a canine approximation of a smile, and she barked excitedly at the two. Castielle knelt and scratched behind the mabari’s ears, earning a happy sigh from the canine.

“What a smart girl you are, Kitty” Castielle crooned. “Oh, yes, you are!”

“Oh, encourage the hound why don’t you?” For the first time, Gilmore sounded exasperated. “No wonder she keeps giving Nan fits.”

Kitty barked again and spun around, bouncing from side to side. Her stub of a tail wiggled frantically, wiggling her hind end in lieu of an actual tail. Castielle’s eyes narrowed a little. Was the dog trying to tell her something?

Gilmore seemed to sense it too. “She does seem like she’s trying to tell you something,” he suggested. His head whipped around to stare at the sacks as a scratching sound came from behind it. The sacks shifted, and no less than a dozen giant rats burst forth, red eyes gleaming and sharp little teach already nipping at their ankles.

Castielle shouted in surprise as she kicked the nearest one away out of reflex. She only had a dagger on her, which limited her, but thankfully Gilmore was fully suited and armed in his knight regalia. He and Kitty slew most of the rats, with Castielle making sure they didn’t escape back down the hole they’d chewed in the woodwork of the wall.

It took them just a couple of minutes to kill all the rats, and when they were done Castielle carefully wiped the rat blood off her dagger blade with a rag. Kitty barked happily, her face a bloody mess. Castielle made a face at the sight, and started wiping the mabari’s face too.

“Giant rats? It’s like the start of every bad adventure tale my grandfather used to tell,” Gilmore said breathlessly. “Your hound must have chased them in through their holes. Looks like she wasn’t raiding the larder after all.” Kitty barked in confirmation.

“It certainly looks that way,” Castielle said thoughtfully.

“Those looked like rats from the Korcari Wilds. Best not to tell Nan. She’s upset enough as it is,” the knight suggested. “But seeing as you’ve got your mabari well in hand, I’ll be on my way. I’m to prepare for the arrival of more of the arl’s men.” The knight turned and walked away with a wave goodbye. Castielle followed him out of the larder in time to see him disappear out the kitchen doorway.

“There she is, as brazen as you please! Licking her chops after helping herself to the roast, no doubt!” Nan groused.

“Actually, she was defending your larder from rats. Big ones,” Castielle said blithely. One of the servants gasped.

“W-what? Rats? Not the large gray ones!” she said, eyes wide.

“They’ll rip you to shreds, they will!” the other servant added. Both the elves had gone pale in the face and clutched at each other for comfort.

“See, now you’ve gone and scared the servants,” Nan scolded. “I expect those filthy things are dead?”

“My faithful war hound made sure it’s safe,” Castielle reassured her. There was no harm in letting the dog take the credit. This time.

“I bet that dog led those rats in there to begin with,” Nan sighed. Kitty let out a whine, and the older woman clucked her tongue. “Oh, don’t even start with the sad eyes. I’m immune to your so-called charms.” Kitty whined again, and tilted her head entreatingly. Nan sighed again, and bent down to set some gristle and leftover meat on the ground, which Kitty ate so quickly it seemed she simply inhaled the meat. “Here, take that and don’t say that Nan never gives you anything! Bloody dog.”

Kitty barked happily, and the older woman cracked a faint smile.

“Thank you, my lady. Now we can get back to work. That’s right, you two, quit standing about!” she barked at the elven servants. Castielle shook her head in bemusement, then set off to find her brother.

\---

Teyrna Cousland was talking to three other people when Castielle came across her. “And my dear Bryce brought this back from Orlais last year,” she was saying. “The marquis who gave it to him was drunk, I understand, and mistook Bryce for the King.” She broke off as Castielle approached. “Ah, here is my lovely daughter. I take it by the presence of that troublesome hound of yours that the situation in the kitchen is handled?” she asked sternly.

“Nan’s head exploded and my hound ate the kitchen staff,” Castielle quipped. Maker, was it National Attack-A-Mabari Day?

“Well, at least _one_ of us will have had a decent dinner,” the teyrna sighed. Kitty barked in response. “Perhaps your hound left something I can feed my guests. Darling, you remember Lady Landra? Bann Loren’s wife?”

“I think we last met at your mother’s spring salon,” the woman said pleasantly.

“Weren’t you drunk?” Castielle asked bluntly.

“I’m so proud of my pup’s mastery of tact and diplomacy,” Eleanor said dryly.

Landra chuckled. “Well it was a lovely salon, from what little I remember.”

“Which wouldn’t be much, considering we had to pour you into the carriage afterwards,” the young man off to the side added.

“You remember my son, Dairren? He’s not married yet, either,” Landra said pointedly. Castielle had to restrain herself from rolling her eyes. Not more marriage nonsense.

“Don’t listen to her,” Dairren smiled. “It’s good to see you again, my lady. You’re looking as beautiful as ever.”

Castielle squinted at him, trying to place if she’d met the man before. “Thank you.”

“And this is my lady in waiting, Iona. Do say something, dear,” Landra added.

Iona curtsied. “It is a great pleasure, my lady,” she said. “You are as pretty as your mother describes.”

“You would think that would make it easier to make a match for her, not more difficult,” Eleanor sighed.

“Perhaps your daughter simply has a mind of her own, your Ladyship. You should be proud,” Dairren suggested. Castielle turned to him, surprised. He gave her a faint smile, which she returned hesitantly.

“Proud doesn’t get me any more grandchildren.”

“I can handle my own affairs, thank you,” Castielle interrupted pointedly.

“All evidence to the contrary,” her mother said.

“I think perhaps I shall rest now, my dear. Dairren, I will see you and Iona at supper,” Landra interjected.

“Perhaps we’ll retire to the study for now,” Dairren replied. He and Iona said their farewells, and left.

“Good evening, your Ladyship,” Landra said, and then she too was gone.

Castielle continued down the alleyway, Kitty trailing at her heels, until she entered the family quarters. Eventually she found herself outside Fergus’s room. She knocked on the door as she entered, catching the attention of her brother and his wife.

“Is there really gonna be a war, papa? Will you bring me back a ‘sward’?” their small son, Oren, was saying excitedly.

Fergus chuckled and knelt, tousling his son’s hair affectionately. “That’s ‘sword’, Oren. And I’ll get you the mightiest one I can find, I promise. I’ll be back before you know it,” he promised.

“I wish victory was indeed so certain,” Oriana, Fergus’s wife, pointed out. “My heart is…disquiet.”

“Don’t frighten the boy, love. I speak the truth.” He rose and turned to face Castielle, a grin breaking out on his face. “And here’s my little sister to see me off. Now dry your eyes, love, and wish me well.”

“You two are nauseating me,” Castielle said, but the barb was halfhearted. The fact that everyone was leaving, including her mother, was starting to become unpleasantly clear.

Fergus laughed. “When there’s someone in your life, you’ll understand.” Castielle sighed; everybody seemed determined to have her paired off and married away, especially of late.

“I prefer my freedom, thank you,” she said pointedly.

“One day you’ll meet someone who can handle you. Mark my words.”

She bristled a little at that remark, but let it pass. “I wish I could go with you,” Castielle confessed, as a topic change.

“I wish you could come! It’ll be tiring, killing all those darkspawn myself,” Fergus exclaimed.

“In Antiva, a woman fighting in battle would be…unthinkable,” Oriana suggested.

“Is that so? I’ve always heard Antivan women were quite dangerous,” he winked.

“With kindness and poison only, dear husband.”

“This, from the woman who serves me my tea!” Fergus chuckled.

“I bring a message: Father wants you to leave without him,” Castielle told him.

Her brother sighed. “Then the arl’s men _are_ delayed. You’d think his men were walking backwards. Well, I’d better get underway. So many darkspawn to behead, so little time! Off we go, then. I’ll see you soon, my love.” Oriana nodded, laying her hand on his face tenderly.

“I would hope, dear boy, that you planned to wait for us before taking your leave?” a voice said from behind her. Everybody turned to see the teyrn and teyrna walking in.

“Be well, my son,” Eleanor said. “I will pray for your safety every day while you are gone.”

“A good shield would be more useful,” Castielle said lightly.

“Maker sustain and preserve us all. Watch over our sons, husbands, and fathers and bring them safely back to us,” Oriana said softly.

“And bring us some ale and wenches while you’re at it,” Fergus interrupted loudly. He cleared his throat when his wife shot him a look. “Er…for the men, of course.” The teyrn chuckled, which he tried to hide with a cough.

The teyrna sighed. “Maker, it’s like living with a bunch of small boys. Thankfully I have a daughter, too.”

“I’ll miss you, mother dear,” Fergus laughed. He leaned down and embraced her lovingly. He turned to look at Castielle. “You’ll take care of her, sister, won’t you?”

“Mother can handle herself. Always has,” Castielle replied.

“That’s true,” he said ruefully. “They should be sending her, not me. She would scold those darkspawn back into the Deep Roads.”

“Well I’m glad you find this so funny,” the teyrna snipped.

Bryce laughed. “Enough, enough. Pup, you’ll want to get an early night. You’ve much to do tomorrow.”


	2. Prologue pt 2: A Knife in the Dark

Castielle awoke to find herself tangled in her sheets. A low growl from near her door startled her, and she sat up to find Kitty staring intently at her door. “What is it?” she asked sleepily, rubbing the grit from her eyes. “It’s the middle of the night.”

Kitty responded with a low ‘woof’ and pressed her nose against the crack between the door and the wall, and sniffed loudly. Her hackles raised, and the fur on her back stood on end.

Castielle clambered out of bed, tugging on a nightshirt and loose pants as she went. She’d taken her hair out of its braid before bed, and she ran her fingertips through the long strands to tease out the tangles. She padded over to the mabari, the stone cold against her bare feet, and laid a hand soothingly on Kitty’s head.

“Is it a cat or something?” she asked. “I’ll let you go chase it, but you’ll have to be quiet, no barking.”

Kitty woofed quietly again, fur still on end. The thought occurred to Castielle that maybe it was something more sinister than a stray cat. She grabbed her dagger from where it lay on her bedside table and approached the door again, and pulled the door open.

Down the hall she spotted a couple soldiers in armor she didn’t recognize. One of them heard her door open, and shouted a warning to his companion while he nocked an arrow and fired at her. Castielle swore and ducked back into her room; when she peered back out, the other had charged at her, sword raised high to strike her down. She managed to deflect the blow by striking the man’s grip on the hilt with the side of her fist. She grabbed the collar of his armor and pulled him close as the second arrow came whizzing at her. The man jerked as the arrow pierced his back, and fell to the ground with a groan.

Castielle yanked the man’s shield off his limp arm and blocked the third arrow as she charged the archer. She bashed him under the jaw and his head flew back. He brought his arm up to bring his bow down on her head but stopped with a gurgle as her dagger sank deep into his gut. A gush of blood erupted as soon as she stepped back and pulled the dagger out.

A shout behind her was her only warning as two more hostile soldiers came towards her, swords drawn. Her heart sank as she realized she couldn’t take them on in close quarters, since she had no armor. Her eyes fell to the bow discarded at her feet.

The two soldiers fell with gurgled cries as arrows seemed to erupt from their throats. Castielle lowered the bow and sighed with relief. For the moment, she seemed to be safe.

A set of footsteps quickly approached, and Castielle had whipped around and drawn back another arrow before she realized she had the arrow pointed at her mother’s face. She swore and lowered the bow, letting out a breath.

“Maker’s breath, mother,” Castielle breathed. “I almost shot you.”

“Darling! I heard fighting outside and I feared the worst,” Eleanor panted. She held Castielle’s face between her hands, giving her a once over to ensure the blood on her shirt wasn’t her own. “Are you hurt?”

“I was about to ask you that!”

“A scream woke me up. There were men in the hall, so I barred the door,” the teyrna said. She stepped back, and Castielle finally noticed her mother was clad in armor and had a longbow slung over her back. “Did you see their shields? Those are Howe’s men! Why would they attack us!?”

“I don’t know, mother, but we need to get out of here,” Castielle said. She took in a deep breath, fighting to remain calm.

“Have you seen your father? He never came to bed!” Eleanor asked, her voice tinged with panic.

“Maybe he stayed up with Arl Howe,” Castielle suggested. She bent down and began unstrapping the quiver from the dead archer’s belt. “We must find him. We should check on Oriana and Oren, as well.”

“Andraste’s mercy!” the teyrna gasped. “What if the soldiers went into your brother’s room first? Let’s check on them, quickly. Then we’ll look for Bryce downstairs.”

“You go check on them while I put some armor on,” Castielle instructed.

She’d barely gotten her armor half-on when a blood-chilling scream came from Fergus’s room. She dashed across the hall to find her mother rooted to the spot, face as pale as a sheet. Past her, she could see the unmistakable sight of her sister-in-law and nephew sprawled on the carpet, in a pool of their own blood which still leaked sluggishly from brutish gashes across their necks and chests. Castielle’s knees buckled at the sight, and she had to grip the doorframe to keep herself from falling to the ground. Bile rose in her throat, but she couldn’t tear her eyes away from their deathly still corpses.

“No! My little Oren!” her mother gasped. “What manner of fiend slaughters innocents!?”

Deep from within her, rising past her choking fear and grief, came a flicker of anger which quickly fanned up into a blaze of fury. It was enough to kick Castielle back into motion.

“I’ll make them pay,” she growled, her voice laced with hatred.

“Howe is not even taking hostages!” Eleanor exclaimed, baffled, as she knelt beside Oriana. “He means to kill all of us! Oh, poor Fergus…Let’s go. I don’t want to see this!” She choked back a sob as she stood and wiped her eyes.

The women and the mabari made their way down the hall, peeking in the various rooms to look for survivors. On the way, Castielle redid her braid to keep her hair out of her face. Upon looking in on the guest rooms, they found Lady Landra’s body, butchered just the way that Oriana and Oren had been.

“Oh Landra, not you too!” Eleanor mourned. “If you hadn’t come to me…if you hadn’t been here…”

Castielle laid a comforting hand on her mother’s shoulder. “Come on, there may be survivors yet,” she said softly. The teyrna nodded, and they continued on.

They reached the alley outside the family quarters. The night was a perfect temperature, cool but not too chilly, and crickets chirped softly. Moonlight filtered down, casting rippling shadows as a soft breeze swayed the tree branches. The good weather belied the chaos that currently shook the castle to its foundations, but didn’t cover up the shouting and tramping of feet echoing around them.

“Can you hear the fighting? Howe’s men must be everywhere,” Eleanor panted.

“Then we should take the fight to them!” Castielle said forcefully. Her blood raced, and her pulse pounded in her ears at the thought of confronting Howe about this treachery.

“Don’t be foolish! You would throw your life away!” her mother snapped. “The front gates. That’s where your father must be.”

“We can’t just let Howe win!”

“Listen, darling, we haven’t much time. If we can’t find your father, you _must_ get out of here alive. Without you and Fergus, the entire Cousland line dies here. If Howe’s men are inside, they must already control the castle. We must use the servants’ entry in the larder to escape. Do you hear me?”

“I want Howe _dead_!” Castielle shouted. Eleanor shushed her, glancing over her shoulder.

“Then survive, and visit vengeance upon him!” she said in a low voice. Castielle bit back another argument, and instead nodded curtly before turning in the direction of the kitchens.

They nearly made it to the main hall when they nearly ran headfirst into a fleeing servant. “The castle has fallen!” he shouted. “I’m getting out of here!”

“Wait!” Castielle called after him. “Where’s Howe!?”

The man had barely opened his mouth when an arrow sprouted from his side, and he fell with a cry. Castielle turned to see several Howe guards running towards them, closely followed by a handful of castle guards. Together they managed to dispatch all of the intruders, and Castielle only sustained a cut on one shoulder where a sword had managed to get under her pauldron.

The guards went off to search for survivors, while Castielle and Eleanor continued towards the kitchens.

“Leaving everybody else behind doesn’t feel right,” Castielle muttered to her mother.

“I know, darling, but sometimes we have to do things that in the moment don’t feel right,” the teyrna replied softly. “If you stay and get hurt or worse, then who will get the revenge from Howe that we deserve? Either you save a couple of lives and Howe possibly never gets what’s coming to him, or we risk leaving those few lives in the hand of our capable guards, and we ensure revenge upon Howe once you escape.”

“Once _we_ escape,” Castielle corrected her.

A minute of silent running later, Eleanor stopped them. “We’re getting close to the treasury, with the family blade inside,” she said. “Here, darling, take my key. That blade cannot fall into Howe’s hands; it should sever his treacherous head!” The venom in her mother’s voice sent a shiver down Castielle’s spine.

Castielle used the key to enter the treasury, and retrieved the longsword as well as the heirloom shield; the surface was still scarred from its most famous battle some years ago. While Castielle was proficient with daggers and found them good enough for close combat, she really preferred sword and shield fighting, when archery wasn’t an option. Still, she sheathed one of the daggers and left the other on a small table, then slid the shield onto her arm and hefted the longsword. “Let’s go,” she said.

They crossed the alley and entered the main hall to find a struggle between castle forces and Howe’s soldiers. Eleanor peppered the intruders with arrows, Kitty tore at calves and dragged the enemies down screaming, and Castielle darted between them all, stabbing and slicing with the longsword as efficiently as any master, and using her shield as both weapon and protection. She turned to see her mabari leap into the air, fangs bared to rip out the throat of an enemy, only to collapse to the ground as electricity arced through the air and struck her. Castielle whipped around to spot a Howe mage whipping their staff around, firing bolts of fire and electricity and the soldiers who came near.

Castielle charged with a bellow. She used her shield to deflect a burst of fire and ignored the scent of singed hair as she brought her sword down on the mage, who crumpled to the ground in a still heap.

She turned back to Kitty, but the mabari was already standing. Although unsteady, the dog gave a reassuring bark, and shook herself as if to shake off the effect of the magical attack.

One of the castle soldiers approached; she recognized the fiery orange hair of Ser Gilmore. “Go! Man the gate!” he shouted. “Keep those bastards out as long as you can!” He turned to Castielle and her mother and relief washed over his features. “Your Ladyship! My lady! You’re both alive! I was certain Howe’s men had gotten through.”

Castielle swept an arm at the rubble surrounding them, and at the not-so-distant shouts and tramping feet that echoed even more loudly through the halls. “They _did_ get through!”

“They killed Oriana, and Oren,” the teyrna said dazedly. “I can’t believe…are you injured?”

Gilmore shook his head. “Don’t worry about me, your Ladyship. Thank the Maker you two are unharmed. When I realized what was happening, it was all I could do to shut the gates. But they won’t keep Howe’s men out long. If you’ve another way out of the castle, use it quickly.”

“Come with us,” Castielle said in a rush. If she could save even one life tonight, she wouldn’t consider tonight a complete failure. But the knight was already shaking his head.

“If I do that, you won’t make it out before the gates fall,” he replied. “Please, go while you still have the chance! When I last saw the teyrn, he’d been badly wounded. I urged him not to go, but he was determined to find you.”

Castielle’s heart sank, and her mother’s face turned a shade paler. Father was badly wounded? How bad?

“He went to the kitchen. I believe he thought to find you at the servants’ exit in the larder,” he continued.

“Bless you, Ser Gilmore,” Eleanor said fervently. “Maker watch over you!”

“Maker watch over us all!” he responded, and turned and ran back towards the main gate, disappearing out of view.

The women had barely entered the kitchen when Castielle stumbled; looking down, she saw she’d tripped over yet another corpse. This one hit her like a blow to the gut; Nan’s wrinkled face stared up at her, her scowl at last gone from her face.

“Oh, Nan,” Castielle whispered. For a moment, the walls spun, and she felt like she was going to vomit. Only her mother’s hand gripping her arm kept her upright.

“Come, quickly,” Eleanor urged her, and after a moment the two women hurried towards the larder.

Castielle spotted her father immediately. He lay on his side, arm wrapped tightly around his middle where blood leaked between his fingers and pooled on the floor. “Bryce!” her mother gasped, and ran to her husband’s side.

“There…you both are,” the teyrn gasped weakly. “I was…wondering when you would…get here.”

“Maker’s blood, what’s happening?” Eleanor demanded. “You’re bleeding!”

“Howe’s men…found me first,” Bryce ground out bitterly. “Almost…did me in there.”

“I’ll _kill_ Howe for what he’s done,” Castielle swore. “We need to get you out of here.”

“I…I won’t survive the standing, I think,” her father said shakily.

“Then we’ll simply drag you out of here,” she replied firmly.

“Only if…you’re alright with…leaving pieces of me…behind, pup,” the teyrn said, giving her a faint smile.

“Bryce this is no time for jokes!” Eleanor scolded, but Castielle could hear the panic in her voice. It was the same panic that clawed at her, too. “Once Howe’s men break through the gate, they will find us. We must go!”

“Someone…must reach Fergus…tell him what has happened,” Bryce said.

“You can tell him yourself, father,” Castielle said forcefully. He smiled again.

“I wish I could…” He groaned, his face paling with agony.

“Bryce no! The servants’ passage is right here. We can flee together, find you healing magic!” the teyrna pleaded.

The teyrn’s voice was thick with pain and fear. “The castle…is surrounded. I cannot make it.”

“I’m afraid the teyrn is correct,” a somber voice said from behind them. Castielle turned to see Duncan come striding in, sheathing his dagger as he did. He knelt at Bryce’s side. “Howe’s men have not yet discovered this exit, but they surround the castle. Getting past will be difficult.”

“You are Duncan, then? The Gray Warden?” Castielle’s mother asked hesitantly.

“Yes, your Ladyship. The teyrn and I tried to reach you sooner,” Duncan explained.

“My youngest daughter helped me get here, Maker be praised.”

Duncan turned to face Castielle, eyeing her appraisingly. “I am not surprised.”

“Thank you for saving my father,” Castielle said.

“Your gratitude is premature, I fear,” the Warden replied.

“You are under no obligation to me,” Bryce whispered, “but please, take my wife and daughter to safety.”

“I will, your lordship, but I fear I must ask something in return,” Duncan said gravely.

“Anything!”

“What is happening here pales in comparison to the evil now loose in this world. I came to your castle seeking a recruit. The darkspawn threat demands I leave with one.”

The teyrn seemed to wilt. “I…I understand,” he said, defeat evident in his voice.

“Wait, what about Ser Gilmore?” Castielle asked.

“Truthfully, you were always my first choice,” Duncan admitted. He turned back to Bryce. “I will take the teyrna and your daughter to Ostagar to tell Fergus and the king what happened. Then, your daughter joins the Gray Wardens.”

“So long as justice comes to Howe…I agree,” the teyrn said bitterly. Duncan turned to face Castielle.

“Then I offer you a place within the Gray Wardens,” he said solemnly. “Fight with us.”

“My duty is to take vengeance on Arl Howe!” Castielle protested hotly. But Duncan was already shaking his head.

“A Gray Warden’s duty comes before even vengeance, I am afraid,” he said. “I do not wish to invoke the Right of Conscription, but I will if I must.”

Castielle looked back at her mother, clad in armor and splashed with the blood of her enemies, and her father, lying dying on the dirty larder floor. She bowed her head and clenched her fists upon her knees. Kitty whined softly, and nuzzled her arm.

“Fine,” she said at last, her voice so soft it was nearly inaudible. She swallowed back the lump of emotion and raised her head, her pewter gray eyes meeting Duncan’s brown ones steadily. “Gray Warden, I accept your offer.”

Duncan stood. “We must leave quickly, then.”

“Bryce, are you…are you sure?” Eleanor asked hesitantly.

“Our daughter will not die of Howe’s treachery,” he said forcefully. “She will live, and make her mark on the world.”

The teyrna turned to face Castielle. “Darling, go with Duncan,” she instructed. “You have a better chance to escape without me.”

“Eleanor-” her father tried to interrupt.

“Hush, Bryce. I’ll kill every bastard that comes through that door to buy them time. But I won’t abandon you.” Her face was set; Castielle knew there was no changing her mind. But she had to try.

“Mother, I won’t let you sacrifice yourself!” she protested.

“My place is with your father,” the teyrna said firmly. “At his side, to death and beyond.”

Bryce’s face twisted with pain. “Then…go, pup,” he gasped out as, finally, the crashing sounds and the shouting drew closer. The enemy was nearly upon them. “Warn your brother. And know that we love you both. You do us proud.”

Castielle’s lips trembled, and tears threatened in the corners of her eyes for the first time in a long time. Distantly, they heard a crash, and the sounds of fighting grew louder. “I love you,” she blurted out. “I love you both so much.”

Duncan’s hand fell onto her shoulder. “They’ve broken through the gates, we must go now,” he urged. Castielle shrugged his hand off and threw herself into her mother’s arms, embracing her one last time. The two women clutched each other tightly, armor digging into one another but not caring.

“Goodbye, darling,” her mother murmured into her ear. Castielle pulled back and leaned down to lay her hands tenderly on either side of her father’s deathly pale face. She pressed her lips to his forehead to leave a tender kiss, and then she and the Gray Warden were gone.


	3. Battle of Ostagar pt 1: Tainted Blood

_We will be traveling south through the hinterlands to the ruins of Ostagar, on the edges of the Korcari Wilds. The Tevinter Imperium built Ostagar long ago to prevent the Wilders from invading the northern lowlands. It’s fitting we make our stand here, even if we face a different foe within that forest. The king’s forces have clashed with the darkspawn several times, but here is where the bulk of the horde will show itself. There are only a few Gray Wardens within Ferelden at the moment, but all of us are here. This Blight must be stopped, here and now. If it spreads to the north, Ferelden will fall._

* * *

 

It had taken them nearly two weeks of a forced march to get all the way from Highever to the ruin of Ostagar, where the Gray Wardens had set up operations. Once outside the range of archers on Castle Cousland's battlements, Duncan had relaxed somewhat, settling into his role as guide and eventually mentor. He didn’t press Castielle into too much conversation, instead allowing her time to process everything that had happened, but neither did he allow her to sink too far into her own thoughts.

Castielle, for the most part, didn’t initiate conversation with the man. She didn’t blame him for his actions, she knew full well that the oncoming Blight demanded a Warden response, but at the same time she knew she could’ve made a difference if she had stayed in Castle Cousland. She had given herself time to grieve, in moments of solitude stolen from her forced company with the Gray Warden; the privacy he granted her when she needed to relieve herself, or the nights when the man fell asleep before she did. Only then would she allow herself to shed tears, her muffled sobs held close, until her face was red. Kitty would always sit close, her massive head nestled against Castielle, only ever giving a soft whimper now and then, or a gentle lick for comfort. To his credit, if Duncan ever noticed her swollen eyelids the next morning, he never commented on it.

Castielle had taken nearly an entire day to process what had happened to her family and home, walking as if in a bleary-eyed trance. Duncan glanced at her now and then, no doubt concerned but unsurprised at her shell-shocked expression. She gave herself the duration of their march to grieve, before moving on to the next logical step: revenge. The next dawn, Duncan had awoken to find her already awake. She sat near the remains of their fire from the night before. In her lap lay coiled her braid of silvery hair, shorn carefully from the hair that now stopped just past her chin. At the Warden's raised eyebrows, her only response had been, "Howe will know."

By the time the three of them passed the town of Lothering and made their way down the Imperial Highway to the crumbling spires of the Ostagar ruins, Castielle was no longer grieving – she had moved into cold, fierce, indomitable resolve.

“Ho there, Duncan!”

The cheerful voice broke into her thoughts, and Castielle looked up to see a man in shining golden armor and honey-blonde hair approaching Duncan and herself. He had an easy smile and his face was open and welcoming. He held out a gauntlet-ed hand, and Duncan clasped hands with the man.

“King Cailan! I didn’t expect a-” Duncan started, surprised.

“A royal welcome? I was beginning to worry you’d miss all the fun!” the blonde chuckled. Castielle looked at the easygoing man more closely. This man, who was probably only a few years older than her, was the king?

“Not if I could help it, your majesty,” Duncan said, a little stiffly.

“Then I’ll have the mighty Duncan at my side after all! _Glorious!_ ” Cailan shook his head, taking a deep breath of the morning air. He turned and looked at Castielle, eyes flickering between her and the mabari before focusing and taking in her appearance closely. “The other Wardens told me you’ve found a promising recruit. I take it this is she?”

Duncan nodded. “Allow me to introduce you, your majesty.”

“No need, Duncan. You are Bryce’s youngest, are you not? I don’t think we’ve ever actually met,” Cailan said, almost apologetically.

“Are you not even aware my father is dead?” Castielle asked. The last word felt heavy on her tongue.

Cailan’s easygoing manner dropped. “Dead? What do you mean?” he said, aghast. He turned to the Warden. “Duncan, do you know anything about this?” he demanded.

“Teyrn Cousland and his wife are dead, your majesty. Arl Howe has shown himself a traitor and overtaken Highever Castle. Had we not escaped, he would have killed us and told you any story he wished.”

Cailan turned and walked a couple paces away, seeming to process this information. “I…can scarcely believe it!” he exclaimed after moment, turning back to them. “How could he think he would get away with such treachery? As soon as we are done here, I will turn my army north and bring Howe to justice. You have my word,” he said firmly to Castielle. She nodded, accepting his promise. Tohe king’s army would be fine to bring Howe’s army to heel, for sure, but Howe’s life belonged to _her._

Instead of expressing this, however, she stuck with a simple “thank you, your majesty.”

“No doubt you wish to see your brother. Unfortunately, he and his men are scouting in the wilds,” the king continued.

“I must see him at once, but I…am not eager to tell him, your majesty,” Castielle confessed. He nodded in sympathy.

“Of that, I have no doubt. You will see him again once the battle is over, I am certain. I apologize, but there is nothing more I can do. All I can suggest is that you vent your grief against the darkspawn for the time being,” he said apologetically. Although Castielle knew he was right, her temper still flared.

“What would you know about my grief?” she said bitterly.

“Your majesty…I apologize,” Duncan stammered. He shot Castielle a look that strongly reminded her of her own father when she said something rude in the place of a typical polite response to some typical polite question at a dinner or something.

Cailan waved a hand dismissively. “Don’t worry, Duncan,” he said lightly. “You must both be eager to reach your tents. Have you any news before I go?”

“Your uncle sends his greetings and reminds you that Redcliffe forces could be here in less than a week,” Duncan replied.

The king let out a short laugh. “Eamon just wants in on the glory,” he said scathingly. “We’ve won three battles against those monsters and tomorrow should be no different.”

“You sound very confident of that,” Castielle pointed out.

“Overconfident, some would say. Right, Duncan?” Cailan laughed.

“Your majesty, I’m not certain the Blight can be ended quite as…quickly as you might wish,” Duncan said, sounding uncomfortable.

The king shrugged. “I’m not even sure this is a true Blight,” he admitted. There are plenty of darkspawn in the field, but alas, we’ve seen no sign of an archdemon.”

“Disappointed, your majesty?” the Warden probed.

“I’d hoped for a war like in the stories; a king riding with the fabled Gray Wardens against a tainted god! But I suppose this will have to do.” Cailan sighed heavily. “I must go before Loghain sends out a search party. Farewell, Gray Wardens!” He waved, then turned and disappeared further into the camp, followed by his entourage.

Duncan turned to face Castielle. “What the king said is true. They’ve won several battles against the darkspawn here,” he said.

“He didn’t seem to take the darkspawn very seriously,” Castielle frowned.

“True,” the Warden said. He gestured towards the camp, and the two entered the ruins. Duncan continued while they walked. “Despite the victories so far, the darkspawn horde grows larger with each passing day. By now, they look to outnumber us. I know there is an archdemon behind this, but I cannot ask the king to act solely on my feeling.”

“You could if he were not such a fool,” Castielle muttered.

“You must not speak of the king so,” Duncan admonished. “He is…over eager, perhaps, but he is also one of the few Gray Warden allies. Our numbers in Ferelden are too few. We must do what we can and look to Teyrn Loghain to make up the difference. To that end, we must proceed to the Joining ritual without delay.”

“What do you mean, what ritual?” Castielle asked. She tried to remember if a ritual had been mentioned previously, but couldn’t remember.

“Every recruit must go through a secret ritual we call the Joining in order to become a Gray Warden,” Duncan explained. “The ritual is brief, but some preparation is required. We must begin soon.”

“I still need to find Fergus,” Castielle insisted. She had to tell her brother of Howe’s treachery, but most of all she had to make sure he was _safe_.

Duncan shook his head. “You heard what the king said: he is scouting in the Wilds and is beyond contact. Be patient, he will return.”

Castielle pursed her lips in irritation. For the moment, it seemed like her only course of action was what she had been told: to wait. “Alright,” she said at length. “Why is this ritual so secret?”

“The Joining is dangerous. I cannot speak more of it except to say that you will learn all in good time,” he replied. “Until then, you must trust that what is done is necessary.”

“Wonderful,” Castielle sighed. More secrets. “Let’s get this over with, then.”

“Feel free to explore the camp here as you wish. All I ask is that you do not leave it for the time being. There is another Gray Warden in the camp by the name of Alistair,” Duncan added. “When you are ready, seek him out and tell him it’s time to summon the other recruits, Daveth and Ser Jory. The Gray Warden tent is on the other side of this bridge. You will find me there, should you need to.” And with that, the Warden walked off, eventually disappearing on the other side of the massive bridge that spanned the valley.

Castielle took a moment, grateful for the opportunity to be alone and just _breathe_. It was looking like getting answers from Howe would take longer than she expected, but the king himself had promised to help and her gut told her that Duncan might help too. However this would end, she wouldn’t be alone.

She made her way across the bridge, only pausing to admire the statue in the middle. In some distant part of her brain, she thought to herself how the architecture didn’t really strike her as Tevinter in origin, though who knew how long ago Ostagar was built.

Well, Duncan probably knew, but that was beside the point.

As she stepped off the bridge she passed a soldier guarding the bridge. The man saluted. “Hail! You must be the Gray Warden recruit that Duncan brought,” he said cheerfully. Castielle just nodded and continued on.

She passed by several tents, including strange looking warriors who’d painted odd designs on themselves and their mabaris, the king’s tent, and the Circle’s tent. She spotted an old woman sitting against a tree by the Circle’s tent, reading a book in the weak daylight that filtered through the clouds.

Castielle approached the woman, waving to get her attention. “Excuse me,” she said politely. “I was wondering if you know where I could find a Gray Warden named Alistair?”

The old woman peered up at her over the top of her book. “I’m afraid not, my dear,” she said in a kind voice. “Can you describe him? Perhaps I have seen him.”

Castielle shook her head. “I haven’t met him yet, actually. Hence, why I’m looking for him.”

“I’m sure you’ll find him soon enough. This isn’t really that large of a camp.” The woman stood, brushing dirt off the knees of her robe. “You are Duncan’s newest recruit, are you not? He’s not a man easily impressed. You should be proud,” she said with a gentle smile. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Wynne, one of the mages summoned by the king.”

A mage? She wore robes like a mage, but Castielle didn’t see any sign of a staff. But if this woman had managed to last this long without falling prey to a demon, perhaps she was alright. Castielle nodded, and introduced herself in return. “I’ve seen quite a few mages today,” she commented.

“The Circle sent many. Mages have always helped in past Blights,” Wynne explained. “To defeat the darkspawn, we have to work together. It’s not an idea everyone seems able to grasp.”

“You’ve faced darkspawn before?”

“Stragglers, yes. Not the horde the scouts speak of,” the old woman said with a touch of distaste. “I wonder, how much do you know of the connection between the darkspawn and the Fade?”

“I know the Fade is where you go when you dream,” Castielle supplied cautiously.

“Anytime your spirit leaves your earthly body, whether it’s to dream or to die, it passes into the realm we call the Fade,” Wynne explained. “It’s home to many spirits, some benevolent, others far less so. At the heart of the Fade lies the Black City.”

“I’ve heard that.” Castielle asked. Brother Aldous had probably taught her about it at some point, but it was hard to remember it all. The image of Aldous lying prone on the carpet in the library, slick with his own cooling blood, resurfaced suddenly, and she had to fight down a wave of nausea that overtook her. She clenched her fists to hide their sudden tremble.

If Wynne noticed her sudden mood change, she ignored it. “Some say the Black City was once the seat of the Maker,” she continued. “But when mages from the Tevinter Imperium found a way into the city, it was tainted with their sin. That taint transformed those men, turning them into twisted reflections of their own hearts. And the Maker cast them back to the earth, where they became the first darkspawn. At least, that’s what the Chant of Light says,” she finished wryly.

“The Chantry says many things,” Castielle muttered.

“It may be allegory, meant to teach us that our own evil causes human suffering. Or it may be true. It is as good an explanation as any, for now.”

“I think I’ll just kill every darkspawn I see,” Castielle replied. “Better safe than sorry.”

Wynne chuckled. “A wise attitude. It’s worked well for me in the past. But I’m certain Duncan has more for you to do than talk to me.” Castielle nodded and bid her goodbye as the mage sat once more and returned to her book.

Castielle turned and glanced through what she could see of the camp; the Circle’s tent to the right, a priest praying over some soldiers to the left, a stairway behind her. She headed for the stairwell; if nothing else, the height might help her see the camp better. Not for the first time, she cursed her height of barely 5 feet. She was shorter even than some of the elven servants at her castle.

She ascended the short staircase and spotted a couple of men standing a ways off, chatting. _Maybe one of them knows this Alistair person,_ she thought, and she approached them.

“What is it now?” one of them, a dark haired man wearing Circle robes, was saying in exasperation. Not a friendly chat, then. “Haven’t the Gray Wardens asked more than enough of the Circle?”

“I simply came to deliver a message from the revered mother, ser mage,” the other man, a light haired warrior clad in armor, replied politely. “She desires your presence.”

“What her Reverence ‘desires’ is of no concern to me! I am busy helping the Gray Wardens – by the king’s orders, I might add!” the mage snapped.

“Should I have asked her to write a note?” The warrior’s words were innocent enough, but the grin spreading across his face betrayed him.

The mage’s face was steadily turning purple with rage. “Tell her I will not be harassed in this manner!”

“Yes, _I_ was harassing _you_ by delivering a message,” the warrior drawled.

“Your glibness does you no credit.”

The warrior’s eyebrows raised in surprise. “And here I thought we were getting along so well! I was even going to name one of my children after you…the _grumpy one_.” Castielle couldn’t help a snort of laughter at that; both men glanced at her but made no response.

The mage let out a sigh. “Enough,” he grumbled. “I will speak to the woman if I must. Get out of my way, fool.” He brushed past the warrior with a glare, and stomped away and out of sight.

The warrior turned to face her. “You know, one good thing about the Blight is how it brings people together,” he mused.

“I know what you mean,” Castielle said.

“It’s like a party: we could all stand in a circle and hold hands. That would give the darkspawn something to think about.” The man chuckled. A thought seemed to strike him. “Wait, we haven’t met, have we? I don’t suppose you happen to be another mage?” he asked warily.

“Would that make your day worse?”

“Hardly. I just like to know my chances of being turned into a toad at any given moment,” he replied. “Wait, I _do_ know who you are. You’re Duncan’s new recruit, from Highever. I should’ve recognized you right away, I apologize.”

“How could you recognize me?” Castielle asked, curious.

“Duncan sent word. He spoke quite highly of you,” he responded. Castielle’s eyebrows shot up in surprise; so Wynne hadn’t been exaggerating when she said Castielle had impressed the Warden. “Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Alistair, the new Gray Warden, though I guess you knew that.” He held out his hand in greeting, and she shook it.

“Castielle. You’re Alistair?” Castielle repeated. She’d managed to find him after all, then.

“Yeah, that’s me. As the junior member of the order, I’ll be accompanying you when you prepare for the Joining,” he explained.

“What can you tell me about the Joining?”

“Honestly, nothing. Try not to worry about it. It will…just distract you,” he said. Castielle’s eyes narrowed; more secrets. This whole Joining thing was sounding dodgier by the minute. “You know, it just occurred to me that there have never been many women in the Gray Wardens. I wonder why that is?”

Castielle raised a single eyebrow. “You want more women in the Wardens, do you?”

Alistair chuckled. “Would that be so terrible? Not that I’m some drooling lecher or something, please stop looking at me like that.” He coughed, his cheeks a little red. “So I’m curious, have you ever actually encountered a darkspawn before?”

She shook her head. “No, have you?”

“When I fought my first one, I wasn’t prepared for how monstrous it was. I can’t say I’m looking forward to encountering another,” he said with a shudder.

“That argument I saw…what was it about?” Castielle asked, curious despite herself.

“With the mage? The circle is here at the king’s request and the Chantry doesn’t like that one bit. They just love letting mages know how unwelcome they are,” Alistair said airily. “Which puts me in a bit of an awkward position. I was once a templar.”

Castielle’s eyebrows shot up. This man who seemed more like a goofball than a Gray Warden used to hunt mages?

“You were a mage hunter?” she asked.

“Not that that’s all Templars do, but yes. The Chantry raised me until Duncan recruited me six months ago,” he explained. “I’m sure the revered mother meant it as an insult – sending _me_ as her messenger – and the mage picked right up on that. I never would have agreed to deliver it, but Duncan says we’re all to cooperate and get along. Apparently, they didn’t get the same speech. Anyhow, whenever you’re ready, let’s head back to Duncan. I imagine he’s eager to get things started.” The blonde smiled, gesturing for her to lead the way.

The two eventually made their way back to the center of the camp, where a huge bonfire blazed. Castielle stepped gratefully into the heatwaves cast off by the flames; this far south, Ferelden was freezing.

“You found Alistair, did you?” She turned to see Duncan approaching her, followed by two men whom she assumed were other new recruits, Daveth and Ser Jory. The light from the fire flickered off the plating of his armor. “Good. I’ll assume you are ready to begin preparations. Assuming, of course, that you are quite finished riling up mages, Alistair,” he added sternly.

The warrior shrugged unapologetically. “What can I say? The revered mother ambushed me. The way she wields guilt, they should stick her in the army.”

“She forced you to sass the mage, did she? We cannot afford to antagonize anyone, Alistair. We don’t need to give anyone more ammunition against us,” the senior Warden reprimanded.

Alistair’s eyes dropped. “You’re right, Duncan. I apologize.”

Apparently satisfied, Duncan turned back to Castielle and the others. “Now then, since you are all here, we can begin. You four will be heading into the Korcari Wilds to perform two tasks. The first is to obtain three vials of darkspawn blood, one for each recruit.”

Castielle and the two other recruits shared a wary look. “What do we need the darkspawn blood for?” she inquired.

“For the Joining itself. I’ll explain more once you’ve returned.”

“And what’s the second task?”

“There was once a Gray Warden archive in the Wilds, abandoned long ago when we could no longer afford to maintain such remote outposts. It has recently come to our attention that some scrolls have been left behind, magically sealed to protect them. Alistair, I want you to retrieve these scrolls if you can.”

“Is this part of the Joining too?” Castielle queried. Duncan shook his head.

“No, but the effort must be made,” he said. “I have every confidence you are up to the task.”

“Find the archive and three vials of blood,” she repeated, cementing the tasks in her memory. “Understood.”

Duncan turned to the younger of the two Wardens. “Watch over your charges, Alistair,” he said gravely. “Return quickly, and safely.”

“We will.”

“Then may the Maker watch over your path. I will see you when you return.” And with a nod, Duncan sent the four of them on their way.

As they approached the gate leading out of the ruins, the guard standing to the side straightened up. “Hail! I’m told you all have business in the Wilds,” he said gruffly. “The gate’s open for you. Just be _careful_ out there. Even a Gray Warden won’t be safe in the forest tonight.”

Castielle nodded, and the group stepped out into the forest.


	4. Battle of Ostagar pt 2: Into the Wilds

For the first several minutes, they trekked in silence, interrupted only by a few stray wolves that kept their distance. The cool air left goosebumps over her arms, and when she huffed out a breath, it rose in front of her in a fog; Highever was much warmer than this part of Ferelden.

“So we’re supposed to just wander around this freezing marsh until we find some darkspawn willing to attack us?” Daveth groused.

“Actually, it’s not a marsh, it’s a swamp,” Jory corrected.

“What?”

“It’s a swamp,” Jory repeated. “Marshes have the flooded ground, just like this, but are incapable of supporting large plants like all these trees.” Everyone stared at the knight, who slowly grew red in the face. “What? It’s true.”

“Daveth’s original point stands,” Castielle pointed out. “Do we just hope to run into the body of the horde or something?”

“We’ll find some darkspawn, don’t you worry,” Alistair replied. “Though we’re far from the actual horde itself.”

“I don’t suppose you can tell us anything about this Joining or why it needs darkspawn blood, can you?” Daveth asked pointedly. Alistair was shaking his head before the thief even finished.

“That’s not my place to explain, and at this point it would just distract you,” he replied.

“I’m liking this less and less,” Jory groaned. Castielle had to agree.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a weak cry some ways ahead.

“Did you hear that?” Castielle said, looking around. Jory, Daveth, and Alistair looked around as well, and Kitty raised her snout to sniff the air. The mabari gave a bark and bounded off, with the humans in the rear.

“Over here!” she could hear someone calling out in a pained voice. They all sped up and finally arrived at the scene. A wagon was off to the side, tipped over, and an ox lay on its side covered in blood and its belly ripped open. Castielle gagged at the smell; Ser Jory, Daveth, and Alistair seemed likewise affected. A dozen or so human bodies lay scattered, all bloodied and still. Then, one of the bodies moved.

The wounded soldier peered up at them all, apparently dazed. “Who…is that? Gray Wardens…?” he ground out. Castielle knelt next to him, looking him over to assess his wounds.

“Well, not half as dead as he looks, is he?” Alistair said lightheartedly.

“My scouting band was attacked by darkspawn,” the soldier gasped. “They came out of the ground…Please, help me! I’ve got to…return to camp…” He shuddered with a new wave of agony, and blood leaked through his fingers that he held clenched to his side.

“Come on, we can take you back,” Castielle reassured him.

“If you just…bandage me up, I…can get back myself,” the soldier panted. Alistair knelt next to her, already pulling his pack off his back to get the bandages. He helped tightly bind the bandages around the soldier’s middle, staunching the flow of blood from a deep cut, and helped him back into his armor.

“Thank you,” the soldier groaned as he staggered to his feet. “I…I’ve got to get out of here!” With that, he limped off in the general direction of the Ostagar ruins.

“Did you hear? An entire patrol of seasoned men killed by darkspawn!” Ser Jory burst out.

“Calm down, Ser Jory. We’ll be fine if we’re careful,” Alistair reassured him. The knight didn’t look convinced.

“Those solders were careful, and they were still overwhelmed,” Jory stressed. “How many darkspawn can the four of us slay? A dozen? A hundred? There’s an entire _army_ in these forests!” By this point, even the thief Daveth looked a little pale.

Alistair shook his head. “There are darkspawn about, but we’re in no danger of walking into the bulk of the horde,” he said calmly.

“How do you know?” Jory demanded. “I’m not a coward, but this is foolish and reckless. We should go back.”

“We’re far from helpless here,” Castielle interjected. Jory turned to face her.

“I still do not relish the thought of encountering an army,” he said forcefully.

“Know this: all Gray Wardens can sense darkspawn. Whatever their cunning, I guarantee they won’t take us by surprise. That’s why I’m here,” Alistair said in a soothing tone.

“You see, ser knight?” Daveth spoke up. “We _might_ die, but we’ll be warned about it first.”

“That is…reassuring?” Jory said, sounding unconvinced.

Alistair quirked a smile. “That doesn’t mean I’m here to make this easy, however. So let’s get a move on.”

They continued moving steadily north, avoiding the murky puddles of freezing water and the pits of mud that threatened to suck the boots off their feet. Off to one side, a splash of color caught Castielle’s eye. She stepped over to investigate and found herself looking at a small white flower growing on a felled log. Closer inspection revealed a splash of red in the middle. She leaned close and sniffed; it had a delicate scent that reminded her of her mother’s perfume. Longing welled up in her and for a moment she had a lump in her throat.

“That flower,” a voice behind her piped up, pulling her out of her reverie. She turned to see Daveth had stepped close, admiring the flower as well. “White with a red center. The kennel master at Ostagar was asking about those.”

“Why did he want them, do you know?” Castielle asked halfheartedly, not really interested in the answer.

“The kennel master said this flower can help dogs that get sick from biting darkspawn,” the thief explained. “At any rate, he was offering a reward if someone went into the Wilds and brought him one. Might want to think about it, is all.”

She looked at the flower more closely. She waited till nobody was looking at her, and plucked the flower and tucked it into her pack.

They hadn’t gone another fifty feet when a terrifying bellow echoed through the trees. Castielle shot a look at Alistair, and the look on his face confirmed her suspicion. Out of the trees ahead of them ran about half a dozen darkspawn, the tallest of which towered over them by at least a foot. Nothing that she had ever been told could have prepared her for how horrific the creatures were.

The Hurlock charged them, jagged sword raised high. Its mouth opened inhumanely wide to let out another rancid-breath bellow as its sword came down on Castielle’s raised shield. She sliced at its midsection and black putrid blood burst forth. She parried another attack and bashed at it with her shield, forcing it to stagger back a step, which gave her the room to slice the thing’s throat. It hit the ground with a thud, and let out one gurgling death rattle before it died.

Alistair had already taken down two more and was helping Daveth with a genlock hacking at him with an axe. She turned to spot Ser Jory struggling with another Hurlock, the two of them with swords locked and Jory looking as if he was going to either scream or vomit. She rushed over and buried her sword hilt-deep in the creature’s back; it fell to the ground with a cry, twitching.

“Everybody alright?” Alistair asked as he wiped the black blood off his sword. Castielle and Daveth nodded, no worse for the wear, but Ser Jory still looked as if he were going to vomit any moment.

Once everybody had regained their composure, each of the three recruits took out their vial and filled it with the black sticky blood of the darkspawn they’d personally had a hand in bringing down.

“Excellent,” Alistair exclaimed. “Now we just need to grab those scrolls from the Gray Warden archive. The ruins should be this way.” He gestured northward, and once more the group set off.

Two hours, fifteen darkspawn, six wolves, and one angry badger later, the spires of another set of ruins appeared between the trees. The group trudged up to the ancient stonework, by now tired, muddy, and sticky with darkspawn blood. In the center of the ruins was a huge open area, across which Castielle could see a heavy, ornate stone chest. Alistair gestured for her to go ahead and open it.

The lid creaked softly as it rose, and Castielle’s eyebrows contracted as she laid her eyes on the contents of the chest. Or rather, the lack of contents. “It’s empty,” she exclaimed. Was this some kind of trick?

“Well, well, what have we here?”

Castielle jumped at the voice and turned around. At the top of a stone flight of stairs stood a dusky-skinned woman with raven hair pulled back from her face. She began descending the stairs almost leisurely, and at this point Castielle noticed the towering staff strapped to the woman’s back. Castielle stood and warily approached the bottom of the stairs, hand resting on the hilt of her dagger almost unconsciously.

“Are you a vulture, I wonder?” the strange woman mused aloud. “A scavenger poking amidst a corpse whose bones were long since cleaned? Or merely an intruder, come into these darkspawn-filled Wilds of mine in search of easy prey?” The woman finally drew close, and with a shock Castielle realized the mage’s eyes were as golden yellow as the ornate turquoise-studded golden necklace with rested around the woman’s neck. Out of the corner of her eye, Castielle spotted the three men sizing the woman up, with particular interest to the conveniently-placed red scarf the woman had draped around her neck instead of armor or even a shirt. She also wore a skirt seemingly comprised entirely out of leather belts and straps. The woman crossed her arms over her chest. “What say you, hmm? Scavenger, or intruder?”

Instead of giving an answer, Castielle raised an eyebrow. “And just how are these _your_ Wilds?”

The woman chuckled. “Because I know them only as one who owns them could. Can you claim the same? I have watched your progress for some time,” she continued, striding through the group and stopping a short distance away. The mage stared off into the forest. “’Where do they go,’ I wondered. ‘Why are they here’? And now you disturb ashes none have touched for so long. Why is that?”

“Don’t answer her,” Alistair said under his breath. “She looks Chasind, and that means others may be nearby.

The mage scoffed. “You fear barbarians will swoop down upon you?” she taunted, waving her arms dramatically.

Alistair scowled. “Yes, swooping is bad.”

“She’s a Witch of the Wilds, she is!” Daveth suddenly interrupted. “She’ll turn us into toads!”

The woman raised an eyebrow. “Witch of the Wilds? Such idle fancies, those legends. Have you no minds of your own?” Her gaze turned to Castielle. “You there. Women do not frighten like little boys. Tell me your name and I shall tell you mine.”

“You can call me Castielle,” she said. The witch nodded, and somehow Castielle felt like she had gained this woman’s approval somehow.

“And you may call me Morrigan, if you wish,” the mage replied. “Shall I guess your purpose? You sought something in that chest, something that is here no longer?”

“’Here no longer’?” Alistair repeated. “You stole them, didn’t you? You’re…some kind of…sneaky…witch-thief!” he accused. Castielle fought the urge to roll her eyes.

Morrigan seemed to feel the same. “How very eloquent,” she drawled. “How does one steal from dead men?”

“Quite easily, it seems. Those documents are Gray Warden property, and I suggest you return them,” Alistair said forcefully.

“I will not, for ‘twas not I who removed them. Invoke a name that means nothing here any longer if you wish; I am not threatened,” the mage said haughtily.

Castielle sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose in irritation. This bickering was beginning to give her a headache. “She’s toying with us,” she said to the men. “Let’s go.”

“Why so petulant?” Morrigan called after her. “You wish to know who removed your papers? ‘Twas my mother who did the deed.”

Castielle stopped, staring at the woman. “Your…mother,” she said flatly. “Is that a joke?”

“If so, it seems the truthful rather than funny sort, no?” the witch replied.

“Great, she’s a thieving, weird-talking, funny sort of witch,” Alistair groused from behind her.

“Not all in the Wilds are monsters,” Morrigan sighed. “Flowers grow, as well as toads. If you wish, I will take you to my mother. ‘Tis not far from here, and you may ask her for your papers, if you like.”

“We _should_ get those treaties, but I dislike this Morrigan’s sudden appearance,” Alistair muttered to Castielle. “It’s too convenient.”

“I say we go with her,” Castielle shrugged. They needed the papers after all.

“She’ll put us all in the pot, she will. Just you watch!” Daveth exclaimed distrustfully.

“If the pot’s warmer than this forest, it’d be a nice change,” Ser Jory interjected.

“Follow me, then, if it pleases you,” Morrigan offered. She turned and began walking, and after a second’s hesitation, Castielle followed. She could hear the three men following her, only grumbling slightly.

A half hour’s walk deeper into the swamps brought them within sight of a small, plain hut. An old woman in a dirty dress stood beside the door, watching them approach with beady eyes.

“Greetings, mother,” Morrigan called ahead. “I bring before you four Gray Wardens who-”

“I see them, girl,” the woman said in a raspy voice. She glanced over them all as they drew close. “Hmm…much as I expected.”

Alistair snickered. “Are we supposed to believe you were expecting us?”

“You are required to do nothing, least of all believe,” the old woman replied. “Shut one’s eyes tight or open one’s arms wide; either way, one’s a fool!”

“She’s a witch, I tell you!” Daveth whispered loudly. “We shouldn’t be talking to her!”

“Quiet, Daveth!” Ser Jory snapped. “If she’s really a witch, do you really want to make her mad?”

“Yes, there is a smart lad. Sadly irrelevant to the larger scheme of things, but it is not I who decides. Believe what you will,” Morrigan’s mother said cryptically. She turned her gaze to Castielle and stepped close. Castielle held the woman’s piercing gaze; the woman had golden eyes, just like Morrigan. “And what of you? Does your woman’s mind give you a different viewpoint? Or do you believe as these boys do?”

Castielle mulled briefly over her possible responses, but settled on what seemed the safest: “I’m not sure what to believe.” Morrigan’s mother nodded.

“A statement that possesses more wisdom than it implies,” she mused. “Be always aware…or is it oblivious? I can never remember. So much about you is uncertain…and yet I believe. Do I? Why, it seems I do!”

“So _this_ is a dreaded Witch of the Wilds?” Alistair chuckled behind her.

“Witch of the Wilds, eh? Morrigan must have told you that,” the old woman interrupted. Alistair’s face reddened as he realized his mutter had been overheard. “She fancies such tales, though she would never admit it!” She clasped her hands together. “Oh, how she dances under the moon!” The woman let out a cackling laugh. Behind her, Morrigan looked rather displeased.

“They did not come to listen to your wild tales, Mother,” Morrigan said tersely.

“True, they came for their treaties, yes?” she said, opening the door to her hut and rummaging through a container just out of sight. She came back outside, a few scrolls bound together in hand. She held them out to Castielle, who took them. “And before you begin barking, your precious seal wore off long ago. I have protected these.”

“You…oh,” Alistair stopped, surprised. “You protected them?”

“And why not? Take them to your Gray Wardens and tell them this Blight’s threat is greater than they realize!” the woman exclaimed.

“Thank you for returning them,” Castielle said, inclining her head. The old woman let out a chuckle.

“Oh, do not mind me,” she replied. “You have what you came for.”

“Time for you to go, then,” Morrigan interrupted.

“Do not be ridiculous, girl. These are your guests,” the old woman lectured.

“Oh, very well,” Morrigan sighed. “I will show you out of the woods. Follow me,” she said, setting off. Castielle gave the old woman one last searching look before she and the three men followed the mage back into the forest in the direction of the Ostagar ruins.


	5. Battle of Ostagar pt 3: The Joining

Castielle leaned against a pillar, arms crossed over her chest. The three recruits had been told to wait in the ruins of Ostagar’s temple while Duncan and some of the Warden mages prepared the Joining ceremony. Even Alistair had left, and in the absence of anybody of authority to ask questions, the two men had resorted to bickering and, inevitably, assuming the worst.

“The more I hear about this Joining, the less I like it,” Ser Jory groused.

“Are you blubbering again?” Daveth snapped.

“Why all these damned tests? Have I not earned my place?” the knight demanded.

Daveth snorted. “Maybe it’s tradition. Maybe they’re just trying to annoy you,” he sneered.

Castielle pinched the bridge of her nose in exasperation. “Quit your bickering. There’s nothing any of us can do about it now,” she sighed. Despite her nonchalant attitude, her stomach clenched with anxiety. Far from keeping them from worrying, the Wardens’ blatant refusal to explain, well, _anything_ had only made them all worry even more.

From her position on the ground, Kitty huffed out a sigh and adjusted her head’s position on her crossed paws. Castielle knew the mabari well enough to know she was as irritated with the men as she was, but if her master wasn’t going to do anything physical about it, then neither was she.

“I only know that my wife is in Highever with a child on the way,” Jory bemoaned. “If they had warned me, I…well, it just doesn’t seem fair.” His shoulders slumped and he cast his eyes to the ground, already looking defeated.

Daveth spread his hands out. “Would you have come if they warned you? Maybe that’s why they don’t.” He let out a sigh. “The Wardens do what they must, right?”

“Including sacrificing us?” Jory retorted.

“I’d sacrifice a lot more if I knew it would end the Blight,” the thief replied somberly.

“Sweet Andraste above, will you both shut up?” Castielle snapped. “Maker, dealing with you two is absolute childcare. You’re acting as if we’re sacrifices for some ritualistic slaughter. We’re all here because the Gray Wardens need recruits. There is no purpose served in killing us before we’ve even gone through this Joining.”

“Yeah, ser knight, try not to wet your trousers until the ritual starts,” Daveth sneered.

“I’ve just never faced a foe I could not engage with my blade,” the knight sighed.

Their conversation was interrupted by approaching footfalls. In the doorway appeared Duncan, his outline haloed by the dying sunlight’s last rays. He entered the temple’s main room, followed closely by Alistair and two Warden mages, one of whom carried a large, ornate pewter goblet and the other a large, opaque vial.

“At last, we come to the Joining,” Duncan said as he stopped in front of the recruits. If Castielle thought he had been an unusually somber man on their journey here, it was nothing compared to the seriousness of his tone now. “The Gray Wardens were founded during the first Blight, when humanity stood on the verge of total annihilation. So it was that the first Gray Wardens drank of darkspawn blood, and mastered their taint.” He gestured to the two mages, who held the pewter goblet at arm’s length and emptied the contents of the vial inside. Out poured a thick, dark liquid, which seemed to give a metallic shimmer in the torchlight.

“Wait…we’re going to drink the blood of those…those creatures?” Ser Jory demanded. The knight had gone even paler than before, eyes wide with horror. For once, Daveth seemed to be in agreement with Jory, and the two men exchanged a glance of shared terror and disgust.

Castielle held her tongue, but silently she agreed with the men. She’d heard about what the taint could do to people from people she’d chatted with in the camp, and the growing unease in her gut told her where this Joining ritual was going.

“As the first Gray Wardens did before us, as we did before you,” Duncan explained. “This is the source of our power, and of our victory.”

“Those who survive the Joining become immune to the taint,” Alistair jumped in. He stepped forward; his easygoing manner from earlier in the day was now replaced by a much more serious attitude. “We can sense it in the darkspawn, and use it to slay the archdemon.”

“’Those who survive’?” Castielle repeated, breaking her silence. So, her fear was well founded: this ritual was deadly.

“Not all who drink the blood will survive, and those who do are forever changed,” Duncan elaborated. “This is why the Joining is a secret. It is the price we pay, to gain our advantage over the darkspawn. We speak only a few words prior to the Joining, but these words have been said since the very first. Alistair, if you would?”

The younger Warden stepped forward, into the center of the group. He bowed his head, eyes downcast. “Join us, brothers and sisters,” he began, in a low voice. The words echoed with the weight of the centuries past, somehow managing to simultaneously quell and agitate Castielle’s anxiety. “Join us in the shadows where we stand, vigilant. Join us as we carry the duty that cannot be forsworn. And should you perish, know that your sacrifice will not be forgotten, and that one day we shall join you.”

As Alistair spoke, Castielle watched Jory closely. The large man shifted his weight from foot to foot, eyeing the blood-filled goblet with growing terror. Though he didn’t speak a word, Castielle could see the urge to flee rising in him.

Duncan turned to the mages and took the pewter goblet from them, before turning to face the thief. “Daveth, step forward,” he commanded. The man complied, and took the extended goblet in his hands. He let out a huff before lifting the goblet to his lips and drinking a draught of the black liquid.

Daveth handed the goblet back to Duncan, who stepped back, watching the recruit carefully. “Well, that was disgusting,” the thief rasped. He coughed once, then swayed dangerously. Jory made as if to grab him to keep him upright, but Duncan’s extended arm stilled him.

Daveth fell to his knees, his face pale as a sheet. His hands scrabbled at his torso, as if to dig the darkspawn blood out of his body by force. The man gave an inhuman cry of agony as his eyes rolled back in his head and spittle dribbled down his chin. Castielle backed as far away as she could, until the back plate of her armor clinked softly against the stone pillar. Something had to be wrong; she watched with growing revulsion and terror as the man’s veins began to blacken, creeping up the sides of his neck and onto his face.

“Maker’s breath!” Jory exclaimed from outside her range of vision. From the sound of it, he was just as horrified as she was.

He collapsed on his back, still convulsing and screaming, until finally, mercifully, he stilled. Castielle didn’t need Duncan’s quick confirmation that the quick-tongued thief was dead.

“I am sorry, Daveth,” Duncan said softly, head bowed. Without turning, he said in a slightly louder voice, “step forward, Jory.”

Jory backed away from the Warden, drawing his sword as he did so. “B-but…I have a wife. A child! If I had known-” he stammered, his face a mask of sheer terror.

“There is no turning back,” Duncan interrupted, stepping forward.

“No! You ask too much! There is no glory in this!” Jory protested. He backed away until his back hit the temple’s stone wall, sword still held defensively in front of him. Still Duncan approached, unrelenting and impervious to the man’s terror.

At the last moment, Duncan held the goblet to the side, and Alistair took it from him without a word. From his belt Duncan drew a single, curved dagger. “I am sorry.”

At this, Jory’s nerves finally snapped. He lunged forward, sword slicing at the older man. Even with panic clouding the knight’s mind, it was clear he was a skilled swordsman.

Duncan, however, parried the blow as if it moved at a snail’s pace. He deflected the blade away, and with one swift move sank the dagger deep into Jory’s torso.

The knight gasped, eyes wide as reality and the pain set in. The two men stayed still for one heartbeat, almost looking like they were embracing one another, before the Warden stepped back, pulling back the dagger at the same time. Jory sunk slowly to his knees, blood staining his pants and spattering onto the stone beneath his feet, before collapsing on the ground. His dead eyes, still wide with the last remnants of his terror, stared forward blankly.

“But the Joining is not yet complete,” Duncan continued somberly. Castielle wrenched her eyes from the two dead men to focus on the older Warden, who now approached her with the goblet. Panic crackled under her skin like electricity, and bile rose in her throat at the sight of the shimmering black liquid that sloshed inside the rim of the goblet. “You are called upon to submit yourself to the taint, for the greater good of mankind,” he continued.

Castielle mentally beat back the voice in the back of her head which screamed _run away! Stay away from that blood, run as far as your feet can carry you and then keep running-_

Her heart pounding wildly in her throat, she reached out and took the goblet with shaking hands, and slowly lifted it to her mouth.

“From this moment forth, you are a Gray Warden.”

Her first impression was the horrible taste; metallic and bitter, it immediately coated her tongue in a thick layer that refused to release its hold. It burned like fire all the way down her throat just like a drink of the strong liquor her father sometimes drank, yet that was nothing compared to when the drink hit her stomach.

It felt as if she had drank molten rock instead of blood. Duncan took the goblet from her hands just before she dropped it. Castielle clawed at her stomach, trying desperately to vomit the vile stuff back up. Her limbs trembled, grew weak as the mixture spread through her body. She collapsed on her hands and knees; through her dimming vision, she could vaguely see black, spidery veins crawling out in her hands splayed on the ground in front of her.

Through the raging flames that seemed to fill her entire body, she distantly heard breathless screams; dimly, she recognized them as her own. Then finally, mercifully, everything went black.

\---

A barren, rocky landscape. Dim, sickly green lighting, filtering through clouds of smoke and bile. And perched on a mountain of corpses, a massive, purple dragon, its flesh rotting from its bones, a single pale eye staring right at her, right _into her mind_ , as it opened its jaws to reveal rows of ragged teeth, releasing a horrible shriek-

Castielle jerked awake with a gasp, her whole body cold and clammy. Two faces above her slowly came into focus: Duncan’s brown, lined face, brows drawn together in concentration and concern; behind him, Alistair’s tanned face, eyes wide with amazement and relief. At the sight of her opened eyes, both men’s faces gave way to smiles.

“It is finished,” Duncan sighed. “Welcome.”

The men backed away, giving Castielle space to sit up from where she had laid on the stone ground. She groaned, holding her throbbing head in her hands. “How long was I out?” she asked, her voice low and gravelly.

“Almost an hour,” Duncan said. “It’s quite impressive, most recruits are unconscious for several hours at least.”

“Two more deaths… In my Joining, only one of us died, but it was…horrible,” Alistair said quietly, shaking his head as if to rid himself of the memory. “I’m glad at least one of you made it through.”

Duncan held out a hand, which Castielle took and stood shakily with his help. “How do you feel?” the older Warden asked her.

“Nothing you said, or could have said, could’ve prepared me for that,” she grunted, trying to mentally shake off the residual negative emotions.

“Such is what it takes to be a Gray Warden,” the man replied simply, unapologetic but sincere.

“Did you have dreams?” Alistair interrupted. Castielle turned to face him, surprised, and nodded. “I had terrible dreams after my Joining.”

“Such dreams come when you begin to sense the darkspawn, as we all do. That and many other things can be explained in the months to come,” Duncan explained.

“Before I forget, there is one last part to your Joining,” Alistair jumped in. Castielle took a wary half-step back, but stopped when the younger Warden spread his hands in placating manner. “It’s nothing you have to do, don’t worry. We take some of that darkspawn blood and put it in a pendant. Something to remind us…of those who didn’t make it this far,” he explained softly. Castielle couldn’t help but glance to the side, where Daveth and Jory’s bodies had been set next to one another neatly, out of the way.

She turned back in time for Alistair to reach his hand out, a round pendant hanging from a silver chain dangling from his fingers. Castielle took the pendant and examined it; sure enough, seeping from the crease where the locket opened, were traces of the black darkspawn blood, already drying to a crust. She bit back a shudder of revulsion and clasped the chain around her neck, tucking the necklace down inside the front of her armor. The pendant hung heavily on her sternum, the cold of the metal seeping through her undershirt into her skin.

“Take some time,” Duncan told her. “Whenever you are ready, I’d like you to accompany me to a meeting with the king.”

“What kind of meeting?”

“The king is discussing strategy for the upcoming battle. I am not sure why he has requested your presence,” the older Warden admitted. “The meeting is to the west, down those stairs,” here he pointed at the stairs in question, “so please attend as soon as you are able.”

With that, Duncan turned and strode away. Alistair gave her a long, searching look, then followed his mentor down the stairs and out of sight.

Castielle let out a pent up breath as soon as she was alone. Kitty nuzzled her hand, and she gave the mabari an absentminded scratch behind her short ears. “Well, that sure was horrible,” she said distantly. Kitty gave a gruff _boof_ of affirmation.

After a moment, Castielle sat on a block of rubble, taking inventory of herself. Her heartbeat had slowed as the adrenaline wore off, and her limbs no longer felt weak and shaky. She examined her hands closely; her skin appeared a little more ashen than normal, but the creeping black veins had faded from sight. Kitty sat close, watching worriedly with her big brown eyes.

“I’m alright now, girl,” she said softly. She stroked the mabari’s fur reassuringly. “It’s just one more step to avenging our family.” Kitty whined softly, and planted a slobbery lick of a kiss on Castielle’s cheek. She chuckled and wiped the drool away, then stood wearily. “Come now, it’s time we joined that war meeting.”

The two made their way down the short flight of stairs, then across a narrow courtyard. At the end was a long table, scattered with papers weighed down by stones. Standing around the table were Duncan, Alistair, King Cailan, a couple of armored guards, a mage, a Chantry mother, and an imposing man with long dark hair and a sternly lined face who could only be Teryn Loghain. As she drew close, she could hear the men talking.

“Loghain, my decision is final,” Cailan was saying.

“You risk too much, Cailan!” Loghain protested. “The darkspawn horde is too dangerous for you to be playing hero on the front lines.”

“If that’s the case, perhaps we should wait for the Orlesian forces to join us, after all?” the king suggested. Logain’s scowl deepened.

“I must repeat my protest to your fool notion that we need the Orlesians to defend ourselves,” the strategist said disdainfully. Duncan crossed his arms over his chest from where he stood, watching.

“It’s not a ‘fool notion’. Our arguments with the Orlesian Empire are a thing of the past…and you will remember who your king is,” he added, with a hint of a firm threat in his voice that to this point, Castielle had thought him incapable of.

“How fortunate Maric did not live to see his son ready to hand Ferelden over to those who enslaved us for a century!” Loghain exclaimed.

“Then our current forces will have to suffice us, won’t they?” Cailan retorted pointedly. He turned to the senior Warden. “Duncan, are your men ready for battle?”

“They are, your majesty,” Duncan replied.

“And this is the lady from Highever I met earlier today? I understand congratulations are in order.” Cailan gave a thin smile, as if it strained him to do so.

Castielle placed her fist over her heart in the Ferelden salute of loyalty. “Thank you, your majesty,” she replied politely.

“Every Gray Warden is needed now,” the king continued. “You should be honored to join their ranks.”

“Your fascination with glory and legends will be your undoing, Cailan,” Loghain interrupted with a scowl. “We must attend to reality.”

Cailan threw his hands up in frustration. “Fine! Speak your strategy. The Gray Wardens and I draw the darkspawn into charging our lines and then…?”

Loghain leaned over the table, splaying his hands on a map of the Ostagar ruins. “You will alert the tower to light the beacon, signaling my men to charge from cover-”

“To flank the darkspawn, yes, I remember,” Cailan interrupted. He leaned over the table as well, drawing one gauntleted finger across the map to trace the path the parts of the army would take. “This is the Tower of Ishal in the ruins, yes? Who shall light this beacon?”

Logain stood. “I have a few men stationed there. It’s not a dangerous task, but it is vital,” he explained.

“Then we should send our best,” Cailan said thoughtfully. “Send Alistair and lady Cousland along with your men to make sure it’s done.”

Castielle’s jaw dropped. “You mean I won’t be in the battle?” she exclaimed. Off to the side of her vision, Alistair looked just as unhappy with this news as she did.

“Lighting the beacon is imperative if this plan is to succeed,” Cailan replied. “It is not a request.”

“You rely on these Gray Wardens too much. Is that truly wise?” Logain warned gravely.

“Enough of your conspiracy theories, Loghain,” the king snapped. “Gray Wardens battle the Blight, no matter where they’re from.”

“Your majesty, you should consider the possibility of the archdemon appearing,” Duncan jumped in warily.

“There have been no signs of any dragons in the Wilds,” Logain replied thoughtfully. Cailan turned from the strategist back to the senior Warden.

“Isn’t that what _your_ men are here for, Duncan?” he pointed out.

“I…yes, your majesty,” Duncan conceded.

“Your majesty, the tower and its beacon are unnecessary.” The Circle mage, who had so far been silent, now spoke up. “The Circle of Magi-”

“We will not trust any lives to your spells, mage!” the Chantry mother interrupted venomously. “Save them for the darkspawn!”

“Enough!” Loghain said loudly. “This plan will suffice. The Gray Wardens will light the beacon.” Despite his words, the tactician’s face creased into a sour scowl as he spoke.

“Thank you, Loghain,” Cailan said, relieved. “I cannot wait for that glorious moment! The Gray Wardens battle beside the king of Ferelden to stem the tide of evil!”

“Let us only hope everything goes to plan,” Loghain sighed heavily.


End file.
